


Everything stays exactly the same

by On_Prozac



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Mania
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 04:19:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5897968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/On_Prozac/pseuds/On_Prozac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>---------- <br/>Mrs. Wellick is usually unsatisfied with what he is doing, especially recently as that devious creature (“It’s a girl!) gets larger and larger inside her belly every day. Occasionally, Tyrell has nightmares of the mother and her daughter, chasing him down like some conjoined half human monster. In the end, he cannot always escape. In the end he cannot always escape.<br/>---------- <br/>Tyrell reflects on his relationship with his wife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything stays exactly the same

_“All at once, the consequences. All at once you are no longer free, it’s all coming back around, all at once._

_–Welcome to nightvale 13: A story about you”_

_That coffee is cold already._ Amorphous clouds vaporize and liquidize and finally disappear. Tyrell sighs. He hates cold coffee: The cheap taste which reminds him of masked factory workers who only change their cloths when _necessary_ and Tyrell _hates_ that too. The paper on his desk is still blank as it were fifteen minutes ago. Nothing’s changed. No word had been added, nor any cute kitten carton pictures/ any other thing that had a possibility to appear on this diary he is working with. Nothing’s changed. Nothing.

He tries to think what other people may have written to record their life –false substances that deceive their eyes and form consequentially false conclusion- until he reached the fact that there’s nothing worth him to write down. This boredom is killing him. Tyrell sighs again and throw everything on the table into the trash bin. _Later, perhaps later…_

He hears his wife made an unsatisfactory sound in the distance. _You need to take your medicine every day. Or it will get worse._ She said these without even speaking a word. To Tyrell, she herself is the epitome of mediocrity. He shakes his head. Sometimes when he is not working or thinking about his job, he reflects on everything of his ‘personal life’. Marriage, since this is the only activity he is involved in- A combination without passion, but merely the result of mutual benefits- Mrs. Wellick looks perfect on the outside, with her Dior perfume and shiny golden locks and her typical smile _(which made Tyrell, from a certain point, disgusted. Even though he used to love seeing her smile…but wait_ ). He tries to persuade himself that Mrs. Wellick is exactly the type of woman he needs for a successful career. As a habit, Tyrell even drew a list of things that he likes of her. First, she is smart. Second, she is good looking. Third, she is a masochist.

And compare that list to his: First, he is smart too. Second, he is also good looking. Third, he… He hates her. He hates the perfume she put on the shiny golden locks she opens her lips and between her teeth there’s a tiny gap and she smiles. He hates **_hates hates hates hates_** her.

 Mrs. Wellick is usually unsatisfied with what he is doing, especially recently as that devious creature (“ _It’s a girl!_ ) gets larger and larger inside her belly every day. Occasionally, Tyrell has nightmares of the mother and her daughter, chasing him down like some conjoined half human monster. In the end, he cannot always escape. In the end he cannot always escape.

Tyrell sneers. He opens his hands and drops the glass bottle he’s holding. She screams.

**_Later,_** _**perhaps later…**_ “I’m going.” He said, tries to make himself sound as calm as possible, in the hope of that she won’t remind him once again to take that stupid anti-depressant medicine. “Not coming back tonight. Ask your mom to come and take care of you… ” He glances at the curve on her belly. _/Will that thing rip her apart and crawl out someday?_ / “…both.”

She is facing the other direction, her expression blank. “Where. Are. You. Going.” Pausing after each word- Tyrell smiles- Mrs. Wellick is angry.

“Out.”

“To do what?”

“Work.”

A few second of silence, finally she speaks up:“ You need to take your medicine first.”

Tyrell nods, “Sure.” He said “ ** _SURE._** ”

His wife finally let go, she takes out the bottle and passes it to him “So did you find him? The guy that hacked into your company’s network?” Tyrell shrugs again, _she doesn’t want to know._ He **understands** immediately. She asked because she wants to play her role as his wife and he too needs to make it a dialogue. _That’s it, she is putting on that MASK again. This will never end. God. Why can’t I just kill her?_

“Umm… Yes,” he tries to prevaricate. “Yes they did.” But that is only partially true, the tip of an ice burg. Underneath floating in the vastness of deep turbulent water are the things Tyrell doesn’t want to talk about, certainly not to his wife. No. Things like ’illegal interrogation’ or ’Kidnapping’ are better to be kept secret forever. No. _The less she knows the better._ Or to say, this secret-keeping somehow made Tyrell feel excited, like the first time he steal from his mother’s drawer. Finally he owns something, finally. He feels being powerful, which is good, he likes feeling powerful. His lips curves upward and he even leans close to her. “Goodnight, Joanna.”

“Goodnight,” A woman’s voice replies. Now she walks through the mess he left on the floor. Now she is drinking again. “Have fun, Mr. Wellick.”

.

_(And every time again and again, I make lament against destruction –People, Yevgeny Yevtushenko)_

.

Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday.

Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday.

Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday.

While he drives, Tyrell subconsciously begins to count the street lights. Another bad habit. Sometimes he just cannot get rid of performing these meaningless tasks like counting street lights or figure out how many camera are in the shopping mall. And he builds up a system to help himself to deal with the collected data. From the building which he calls ‘my house’ to his destination, there are 357 lights, 20 road sign and one major shopping center. These repetitions all have a meaning inside his heart and he names them from Monday to Sunday.

_When did I decide to keep a diary?_ He tastes the idea. Then he remembers that it was suggested by his doctor. ‘…As a method to… deal with your maniac depression’ she is a terrible woman and her breath stinks. Tyrell frowns. Unhappy memories.

There’s nothing worth him recording of course. He doesn’t care about politics unless it had involvement with his job, nor does he likes reflecting every single event happens daily. It is just so… boring. Incredibly boring. Unsatisfyingly boring. Desperately boring. _Deadly boring._ **Unhappy memories…**

_But late, perhaps later._ Tyrell thought.

…As for now, everything stays exactly the same.

**Author's Note:**

> "As always, i wrote trash, do don't be harsh pls."


End file.
